I've got a pocketful of dreams,
they sometimes weigh me down,
other times, I forget to take them out
and they go through the wash,
crinkled and grey.

My dreams are as fleeting as my love,
intensified, then gone altogether,
they're running, and flying,
and crying, and screaming
at me to 
get it together.

My dreams are clouded
fumes of last week's
marijuana, I still taste the 
whiskey on my lips,
the smell of you burning my nostrils.

My dreams are made of 
fabricated fabric from a factory 
of machinery of make belief,
my dreams are fairytales,
I know them by heart,
but want to hear their endings.

My dreams are not people
because people vanish and it's
bad enough that I love you
and that, at some point
you'll be gone.

My dreams start on a cruise journey
before the Brooklyn Bridge
on the end of the ship singing
"New York, New York" to the
top of my lungs -
they only go out when
every light in the city
is turned off.

Published by Anna Mcnutt